


The Unexpected Visitor

by luftschloss



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), wholock - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M, One Shot, Other, Post Reichenbach, Wholock, cross-over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftschloss/pseuds/luftschloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you want, Doctor?”</p><p>“I have a message to deliver. A message to you, John Watson. From a certain,” his tone was earnest, now. He caught John’s eye. “ - Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>“Sherlock Holmes is dead,” John said. Wearily, defensively. Automatically.</p><p>“Ah, but you don’t believe that. John – John Watson, you know Sherlock Holmes better than anyone. And – because of that – because of that you know that Sherlock Holmes is very much alive.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely thayend over at tumblr who keeps me writing <3

A bed, a chair and a desk. A gray carpet and white walls. Everything tidy, everything clean. Bleak. John Watson’s apartment had the atmosphere of a hotel room, though it certainly did not look as welcoming. Uninhabited, that was the word. You might not have guessed that someone lived there, except for the mess in the wardrobe and the dirty plate in the sink.

John was sitting at his desk, rigidly. That military posture Sherlock had recognized at first glance. And he was tired – so tired. Sleepless nights clung to his eyes in deep and dark circles. Come on, John, he said to himself, dragging a hand over his face. Just click it. Click it and get this over with once and for all. How hard could it be to delete a blog?

Instead, he opened up another tab. Checking the news. He could still delete his blog afterwards. The blog he had no point in keeping. The blog that had been extensively quoted by the press as proof of what a magnificent, manipulative mastermind that Sherlock Holmes had been – fooling a military man into blind, blind trust.

He still did not believe a single word of it. Sherlock had been – well, Sherlock. There was no way none of that had been real. There simply wasn’t.

John sighed, closed the news tab, and went back to his blog.

“Are you sure you want to delete johnwatsonblog.co.uk?”

Yes. Yes, I am.

Click on the goddamn button, John. Just click it.

And he was about to, really, when the doorbell rang. He ignored it, the first time. He had let people – and by people he meant Harry – know that he wanted them to announce themselves before they dropped by.

He ignored it the second time, too, and the third. It was starting to get annoying, when – an electrical whirring noise, and John could hear a man’s voice through his communicator.

“Hello? John? Doctor John Watson? Are you home?”

John frowned. Shot the communicator a very distrustful look.

“I know you’re home, I can see the light from your computer screen from outside; you’re currently sitting at your desk. Would you care to open the door for me – please?”

Was this one of Mycroft’s tricks? No, that man had different methods. And he had not contacted John since John walked out on him in the Diogenes Club – that one time, a year ago. Before – yeah.

“Hello? Can you hear me? I know you can.”

That screeching noise, once more, and the man spoke again.

“I just let myself in. I’ll be upstairs in a minute – looking forward to see you,” the stranger announced, sounding … oddly pleasant.

One of Moriarty’s men, maybe?

Quickly, John unlocked the top drawer of his desk, took his gun out. Always loaded. He made his way to the door, saw the man approach through the peephole and took a few steps back. Enough to be safe if the door flung open.

“Hello?” the stranger asked. He knocked on the door, once, twice. “Would you let me in, John? Doctor Watson? I need to talk to you.”

“Who are you?” John asked.

“Me? I’m the Doctor. You can trust me.”

John sneered.

“Doctor who?” he asked warily.

“Just that,” the man said through the door. There was that whirring sound again. And, as predicted, the door flung open. “ – the Doctor,” the man finished. He pocketed something silver and commented, “I do love great entrances.” Then, he saw the gun – “Woah – woah, I definitely do _not_ love that,” he said, putting up both hands. “I’m unarmed. Unarmed – see?”

John looked at him, unimpressed.

“That silver thing,” he said, still pointing the gun.

“Oh that? That is just a screwdriver – nothing to fear, really. It just drives and screws. Screws and drives.” The man paused for a moment, his expression grew serious. Old. “You can trust me, John Watson.”

“I don’t,” John replied. But he put his gun down, and the Doctor let himself in.

“Very well – very fine. Excellent.”

He sat down in John’s desk chair, whirled around, once. Stopped, crossed his legs, and, with a tone of the most intimate familiarity, asked, “So how have you been, John Watson?”

John sat down on his bed, facing the Doctor. He narrowed his eyes. Decided to counter with another question.

“What do you want?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m just – checking in on you,” the Doctor replied, and smiled in a way that suggested they were very old friends. Very old friends indeed.

John sighed. The people that used to “check in” on him had long given up. He hadn’t been able or willing to keep in touch with any of them and eventually, even the most persistent ones had tired of his perpetual silence. What was there to say? Most of them didn’t believe him. Most of them tried to convince him that Sherlock might have been a fraud. That Moriarty’s story might have been real. Just admit to it, John – admit that there’s the slightest possibility, they told him. Everyone but Mrs Hudson. But seeing her just made it more evident that – dead or not – Sherlock was gone now.

“Now,” the Doctor went on, “There is no way – no way at all, that Sherlock was a fraud. You know that as much as I do.”

And for the first time, he caught John Watson’s attention.

“And there is something,” the Doctor went on, “Something weird. Something odd – something _impossible_ about a man like Sherlock Holmes committing suicide.”

John hesitated. He was tired of games, but this – this one was just too tempting. Once more unto the breach.

“You knew Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, simply.

The Doctor smiled. Yes _yes_ – John was getting there.

“I’m an old friend. A very old friend. A friend who failed him – twice – and is now desperately trying to make amends.”

John frowned. Considered it. Sherlock didn’t have any friends – any old friends. Not that John knew of. Not that anyone knew of.

“I knew him,” the Doctor said, answering John’s unspoken question, “I knew him as a boy. And as an adolescent. I promised to come back for him – twice.”

There was pain in the man’s voice, and deep regret. He sounded old, John thought. So much older than he looked.

“Come back – to take him where?”

“With me. On – on a journey, you might say.”

And something rang in John’s ears, that voice he was so desperately trying to forget. People look, John, but they don’t _see_. That man – he had manipulated the communicator, broken into the building, and into John’s apartment. What did his posture, his clothes, his language say about him? But John was tired. So tired.

“Are you – a relative?” he guessed.

Wrong, he heard Sherlock’s voice, even before the Doctor answered.

“I’m afraid not. I’m not even human,” the Doctor said, and smiled.

John sneered.

“What do you want, _Doctor_?”

“I have a message to deliver. A message to you, John Watson. From a certain,” his tone was earnest, now. He caught John’s eye. “ – Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes is dead,” John said wearily, defensively. Automatically.

“Ah, but you don’t believe that. John – John Watson, you know Sherlock Holmes better than anyone. And – because of that – because of that you _know_ that Sherlock Holmes is very much alive.”

Every single cell in John’s body writhed at that. Hearing those words from someone else’s mouth was as much a relief as it was a torture. John cleared his throat, his hands locked to fists, and he asked, without looking at the Doctor, the question that most plagued him.

“Then – why hasn’t he come back?”

“He can’t. He can’t – not yet – and he’s – he’s awfully sorry. He – John, you _have_ to believe me. It’s all he has. _You_ are all he has. He will be back, in time, but he wants you to know that he’s alright and,” the Doctor hesitated for a moment. “He wanted to make sure you are, too.”

There was a pause. John scratched his head, shifted on the bed. The Doctor waited, silent for a while.

“Tell me what he said,” John demanded. “The exact words he used.”

“He said – he said,” the Doctor paused for a moment, “Doctor, I demand one thing of you, and one thing only. Find John Watson in present day London – find him, and let him know I am alive. No one must know that I sent you. Absolutely no one. – _Oh, that’s right_ ,” the Doctor interrupted himself, seeming shocked. Covered his mouth with a hand. He calmed down very quickly, however, and smiled like a little boy. “I may have forgotten about the last bit. I’m a very old man, you see.”

John mustered him carefully. That sounded like Sherlock alright. He shook his head. Dragged a hand over his face. Licked his lips. Sighed.

“If you’re lying –”

“Oh, but I’m not,” the Doctor interrupted him. “I never lie – alright, I do – sometimes. Very rarely. But! That is _not_ the point. The point is, John Watson, that you know Sherlock didn’t kill himself.”

It was indeed possible to fake one’s death. John had seen Irene Adler’s body. Seen it before she proved to be alive. And Sherlock – Sherlock. He was too narcissistic, too much of a bloody, arrogant egoist to let other people’s opinion’s determine his actions. Wasn’t he?

“Once you’ve ruled out the impossible,” the Doctor quoted, “whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” He paused, looked at John. “Sherlock Holmes isn’t dead, dear Doctor Watson. Will you believe me, now?”

It took a while. But finally – finally, it sunk in, with a wave of relief. John nodded shortly.

The Doctor jumped to his feet.

“Yes! Brilliant! Wonderful – oh, wonderful! John, I could kiss you,” he announced and, added quickly, on seeing John’s expression, “Not that I would, I will leave that to Sherlock but – fantastic!”

“What do you mean you will leave that to – ” John protested, only to be interrupted by the Doctor. Again.

“My work here is done, Doctor Watson, and I’m afraid I am in bit of a hurry. Not really, though, seeing as I have a time machine, but, ah, there are worlds to save, you see.” He clapped his hands together. Smiled at John. “The Headless Monks are cooking something up and I don’t know what it is yet, but I do know that I don’t like it. Always up to no good, these sects – anyway, John!” He took a few quick, clumsy steps towards John and shook his hand heartily, “It has been a pleasure, a pleasure indeed. If I see Sherlock again, I’ll make sure to let him know how much you miss him,” the Doctor added, with a wink, ignoring John’s protests. “As for now, I will leave you to – ” he waved to the laptop on John’s desk, “whatever it is you were doing. Good-bye, Doctor John Watson.”

And, before John could even so much as reply or try protest once more – just _what_ had that kissing remark been about?! – the Doctor saluted and sashayed through the door. Before closing it, however, he peered in again.

“Just don’t delete that lovely blog of yours,” he said, “Such an enjoyable read.”

 


End file.
